“She lives in another state, some four hundred miles from here,” smiled Tom Colquitt.  “Mr. Page, I advise that you find the boy, first.  There isn’t any real doubt as to his being your son.  You had better wait for further proofs until after you have found the boy—–­who, according to all accounts, stands badly in need of a real father just now.”

“You are right—–­quite right,” admitted Mr. Page.  “Yes, we will find my son first.  But tell me something more.  Didn’t the boy know that Bill Mosher wasn’t his real father?”

“No; it had never been hinted to him,” Colquitt answered.  “Bill kept the truth from the child, and, after Bill’s wife died, they moved over into this part of the country, where no one knew their past history.”

“And has my son never been in school?”

“Oh, yes; the compulsory education law came to the rescue, and the boy had a grammar school education before he took to the woods altogether.”

“I know something definite, at last,” sighed the unhappy father.  “I know that my boy is alive, and that he needs a father.  Moreover, I feel certain that he is at this moment not far away from me.  What shall we do next?  Did you wire for more detectives from your agency?”

“There was no need to do so,” Colquitt replied.  “There are several officers now looking for the lad, and they are certain to come upon him.  Hibbert and I will aid in the search.  The chauffeur will bring in four folding cots and some blankets.  We shall have to impose upon these young men for shelter to-night, as this is the point from which we must take up the chase in the morning.”

At least one man in the tent lay with eyes wide open all night, and that was Mr. Page.  By daylight the rain had stopped.  The sun came up, drying the ground in the open spaces, raising a semi-fog under the big trees as the moisture steamed up.  It was a close, humid morning, yet all rose so early that breakfast had been eaten before six o’clock.

Then Mr. Page’s party went away in the automobile, on some errand of their own.

“I wonder how the girls got through the rain last night?” mused Dave Darrin.

“They must have gotten along all right,”

Dick replied.  “They had two dry houses in, which to sleep.”

“I’ve a good mind to go over now, and make some inquiries,” Dave pursued.  “Will you come with me?”

“No, and I’d advise you not to go, either.  Six in the morning is too early to call on young women.”

“That’s so,” Dave assented.  “What time should we go over?”

“As this is camp life, I should say it might be all right for us to drop over there soon after nine o’clock,” Dick said slowly.  “How does that strike you?”

“If that’s too early,” pondered Darry wonderingly, “then we might go within sight of the camp, as if looking for firewood, but not go over to them unless we get a hail.”